The Glass of Fashion
by lye tea
Summary: To the outside world, he was sublime. To her, he was inhuman. /Shou x Kyouko/


**The Glass of Fashion**

O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!  
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword,  
Th' expectation and rose of the fair state,  
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,  
Th' observ'd of all observers, quite, quite down!

_—Ophelia _**[Hamlet Act 150-154]**

Her heart stopped.

She was plain, no beauty, no nymphean allure and bedazzling enchantments (he stated it so). Snarled it out clear and simple, smarting her across the face as the words fly—transform—and gyrate like clipped talons.

He had been playing her all along.

And she had been stupid enough, naïve enough (_did you really think I was so gullible?_), everything not-perfect enough to believe him. Devoured his words like they were testaments of martyrdom and sainthood, she worshiped him. He was beyond mortal, beyond the petty adversities and afflictions of human hurts and—

(and nothing)

She was left with nothing (resentment rising). He didn't pause to care, never did. And it was time for Kyouko to wake up and understand: the world is not a fairytale. But—

The world was ugly and dark and ferocious in its abilities to deceive (what they euphemistically called "romancing the girl") and abandoned the innocents to suffer.

"But I'm the victim here!"

Hell fire and reprisal. She understood loathing better than anyone else. In that instant, Kyouko stopped breathing. Heart simply died.

(And there was no more room for love.)

-

She saw his face everywhere, haunted her even in barricaded sleep. The multi-changing, quick-stepped facades escaped reality and embedded themselves inside her head. She turned, and he followed suit. Neck tense, raised back, legs moving swift, faster, _hurry_.

And still, they caught up. The manic grins of Shou alternated from brick to marble to wood to glass (demeanor detached, he recreated himself anew). Like a trick knee or harsh-developed arthritic wrist, Shou liked to cause misery. (His annoying taunts echoed callously.) Kyouko plunged lay knives and daimyo swords into his imaginary back.

The last twist in—

he fell: pop went his spine, went (in showers of hail and hate) down in cascades his little vertebrae, _pop went the weasel!_

"I will never forgive."

And that was fact.

-

She rose slower than hoped for in the race for stardom, for recognition, for the most satisfactory vindication possible. The president sighed, admitted she had talent, but she desperately needed cultivation. Kyouko seethed for days then finally agreed. He was right, and she was wrong. And once again, kindness proved itself fickle and pretentious.

(But then she met Kanae and Tsuruga-san, and for a brief while, there was less malice and cruelty in the universe.)

And for some hours (passing in fancy, she would wait) of the day, Kyouko could almost smile genuinely—almost forgetting her anger and hatred.

-

She was cast as the villain, and it was like a mockery of her existence (but it was so _right_ and she would pretend-slay him).

And so, Kyouko agreed happily to play the killing angel's role, knowing full well that she would one day regret it.

But the vision of seeing _his_ distorted, hideous face—caught up in astonished ill-fermenting displeasure, turning rage—calmed her down soon enough. Kyouko clapped her hands joyously and acted like nothing was the matter.

(The directing manager shook her head in bewilderment. What a strange girl.)

-

Shou was as good as she predicted (he was horrid).

When he died (tumbling off the Styrofoam-mortar and painted ruins) she felt an overwhelming sensation of _giddy_ and _heady_ and—

The hallucination reverted to Kanae all broken and dejected. Kyouko suppressed the sudden desire to cry.

-

He was so detestably immaculate to outsiders' eyes.

They saw him as flawless, as a living _god_ (Kyouko jabbed the pencil viciously down into his headline-chest). And he smiled and waved back like a natural, never revealing his demonic heart or satanic soul (what shred he still had left).

They never saw him like she did, could never understand how much pain he inflicted on others, those around him, the airheaded, daydreaming girls.

(Because she had been one of them too, and they never will.)

_Back in high school…_Kyouko stopped that train of thought. There was no need to be so _pessimistic_. She hadn't lost yet. The games were only beginning, and as hostess, she had the advantage hand.

(Far, far away, Shoutaro Fuwa sneezed twice, pinched the bridge of his nose, and damned the atmosphere for betraying him.)

-

This is not a romance.

(This is business, is retaliation justified.)

-

Day and night, Kyouko reminded herself of what Shou did. His actions, every thought and every word, were like blisters forming in neat patterns over her skin, creeping—crawling in insect-clad army cleats—through the cells and diffusing into the bloodstream. A sickened intravenous.

_The poison was in the blood…_

She could never forget, had tried and failed. She would capitulate (soft and mushy, what a honey-bunny). Shou needed to taste his own medicine, know agony and suffering and then…_then everything would be fine, just wait._

Kyouko screamed and drowned her face in chilling water (straight from the tap). Immerse in design and mission, and extricate from emotion.

-

He cut her face one afternoon.

(She flew into a Valkyrian rampage.)

He _said _he didn't mean to, brought her an _ointment_—as if this insignificant gesture alone made it all okay—and apologized "sincerely". Kyouko stared into his eyes hard, reflecting years of servitude and obsequious (obeisant) love and veneration.

Nothing.

(There was no more love left in her.)

She turned away, and he retreated. Whatever kismet they shared was now truncated, obliterated. And perhaps, that was for the best.

-

Once upon a time, she hardly dared to breathe in his presence.

And now, she left him speechless.


End file.
